by Megan Chance
Marco took me to palazzos among the regular brick and pink homes of peasants and merchants, helping me out onto slippery steps, speaking to the owners in that strange Venetian dialect. He escorted me with a dignified pride—almost possession—as we went into narrow courtyards with their elaborately carved wellheads in the center, statuary picturesquely blackened with mildew and clothed in moss, up stairs onto terrazzo floors that undulated gently with the settling of the house, vast empty spaces and aged frescos running the lengths of walls.
Many palazzos had been broken up, no longer serving families, but instead boarders who rented by the floor, or by the room, which were separated by a common hall or stairway. The upper floors, most coveted and decorated by those who had lived there, were still beautiful with their pillars and marble and arched windows, plaster carvings and impossibly high, elaborately painted ceilings. Many had recesses where once had hung immense frescos done by Titian or Tiepolo or countless others—artists had been a dime a dozen in Venice when the nobility had built these palaces, and there was no place I saw that didn’t either still have them or had empty spaces where they’d once been before they were sold off.
But each place was too expensive or too small or dirty or dilapidated, and I was growing frustrated and tired. As much as I had enjoyed the day, the sun was lowering in the sky, and I had a nagging headache behind my eyes from the glare of the sun on the water.
I told Marco, “We should go back. My brother will be returning.”
“We are very close to one more, padrona, ai?”
I nodded wearily and put my hand to my eyes, and we turned down another narrow canal. He brought the gondola to a stop at an arched doorway set in a facade of beautifully detailed plaster. He moored to the brown palo and helped me out onto stairs so coated with algae that I had to grab his arm hard to keep from slipping. I glanced up at the darkened passageway leading from the stairs, which was so wonderfully mysterious it somewhat restored my temper.
The courtyard was paved with cracked slabs of Istrian stone, half of it hidden behind a spreading fig tree and a set of stairs that led to the main floor. At the top was another arch, which opened into a wide portego, with huge paned windows at the other end letting in the sun, glowing upon the pale terrazzo floors, filling the room with light. Frescos lined each wall—some bacchanalian revel I was just turning to look at more closely when a rather large, florid-faced woman emerged from a doorway. She was middle-aged, with graying hair nearly falling from its chignon.
Marco fell into a flurry of Venetian. When he was done, she burst into a smile and fluent French, “Welcome, mademoiselle. You are looking for rooms?”
“For my brother and me,” I answered in kind. “I’m Sophie Hannigan. My brother, Joseph, is an artist. He’s come here to paint, and so—”
“You’re looking for a studio,” she broke in. “And bedrooms. A sitting room too, perhaps? And a kitchen, of course. Well, I have the upper floor available now, though you must split it with my other young man. He’s a writer, so perhaps he and your brother will suit.”
She turned, gesturing for me to follow her to the end of the portego, and then up another staircase to a set of doors, which she flew open with a flourish—and without knocking, I noted. We entered an empty sala with the same bare spaces on the walls I’d noted in other places, where paintings or frescos were gone. The ceiling bore evidence of having been removed as well, and each corner had holes where carved plaster cornices had been taken out and no doubt sold. But the space was huge and high ceilinged and lovely, and the rooms she showed me were equally so—a sitting room and one bedroom overlooking the canal, another overlooking the courtyard, though the view was blocked by the fig. There was a third large and well-lit room that would serve well as Joseph’s studio.
“All for only forty francs per month.”
An amount I could afford, and rooms I liked. My headache eased.
“Who is the writer living here?” I asked her when she finally paused for a breath.
“Mr. Nelson Stafford. Do you know him?”
I shook my head. “Is he American?”
“English, I believe. But he’s a fine boy. Very handsome too.” She nudged me with a wink. “I’m certain you and your brother will like him exceedingly. He’s very quiet. I never have a moment’s trouble with him. Would you like to see the courtyard? We all share it, but I can arrange a time for you to have it alone if you like.”
It was perfect. “I would like to see it, yes.”
She took me back down to the main floor, Marco following quietly behind, and then down the stairs into the courtyard. The sun gilded the top of the fig tree; from the stairs I could smell some fragrance I had missed on the way up, something like gardenia, rich and lovely. I could imagine living in these huge rooms and coming down into the courtyard of an evening, breathing deep of that lovely scent, posing for my brother beneath the shining leaves of the fig, telling him the stories he loved deep into sunset.
When we reached the bottom, she skirted the corner, past a statue of a faun, moss-covered, half-blackened. A huge urn nearly half my height held some bushy, viney plant. I heard a strange buzzing beyond, a low hum. Bees, I thought, or perhaps a cloud of gnats.
“Mr. Stafford rather enjoys it in the morning,” she said, pushing aside a wildly tangled vine to pass into the courtyard proper. “He’s always saying to me—”
She stopped short so suddenly I crashed into her. She yelped, a little scream, and her hand went to her chest, and it was a moment before I realized that it wasn’t my stumbling into her that caused her outburst.
“Mr. Stafford!” she gasped.
There, in the middle of the courtyard, near a marble wellhead, lay a man staring vacantly at the sky while a pool of black blood congealed beneath him, covered with darting, buzzing flies.
NICHOLAS
Aren’t you tired of drawing that yet?” I asked Giles, glancing over his shoulder at what must have been the four hundredth sketch he’d done of the Ponte dell’Accademia—an iron monstrosity of a bridge, to put it kindly. I had no idea what he, or any of the dozen or so artists in the Campo della Carita that afternoon, found so intriguing about it, though most of them, admittedly, were painting the view of the Salute.
“I can’t get it right,” he said, pushing his sliding spectacles back into place. “I’ll keep trying until I do.”
I refrained from saying what was true—that Giles would never get it right, and that even if he did, the bridge was so ugly that only someone with egregious taste would ever buy a painting of it—and glanced impatiently away. Art held little appeal for me right now. Nelson Stafford had never appeared for our appointment, and I feared that I’d been too late to save him.
“So where is this girl you want me to see?” I asked.
“She’ll be here,” Giles said implacably.
“I don’t have all day, you know.”
Giles chuckled. “No? What else have you to do?” Then he stiffened. “Oh, oh—there she is. No, for God’s sake, Nick, don’t stare!”
“You sound like a ten-year-old,” I said, following his gaze to where his Giulietta wandered off the bridge and onto the campo. She was, as far as I could tell, the typical dark-eyed, black-shawled Venetian girl, and like them all, she had that way about her that said she expected men to fall at her feet. I suppose men like Giles did, but then, they’d never known true beauty.
Which only reminded me again why I couldn’t linger. I turned back to Giles. “She’s quite pretty. No doubt she’ll pose for a centime or two. God knows they all will.”
“It’s tiresome how cynical you’ve become.”
“Or perhaps just realistic. There isn’t a Venetian girl these days who doesn’t know her worth as a model.”
He made a face. “How would you know? I haven’t seen you with a single girl in months. You’ve been like a monk.”
I glanced toward her again, and that was when I noticed the man crossing the bridge into the campo. He had the
kind of presence that caught one’s attention, a confidence to match the kind of looks that even I recognized as stunning. His hair was dark, and he wore no hat. His white trousers were creased and grayed in places with dust. He carried a large sketchbook beneath his arm.
“Who’s that?” Giles asked, frowning.
“How would I know? I’m not the one who spends all day here.”
“I’ve never seen him.”
Nor had I, and it was true that Giles and I knew almost every artist in Venice by now. They all gravitated to the same places: here at the Accademia, the fondamenta of the Riva near the Public Gardens at sunset, the Zattere for its views of the Lido. They came, they went, almost all of them at one point or another wandering into the salon Giles and I frequented at the Casa Alvisi. So it was strange that neither of us had seen this one.
The man made his way through the campo. Not arrogant, but self-possessed, unlike most of the artists here, who seemed to cower beneath the weight of Venice’s past masters. I found myself watching him, curious. He smiled at those he passed, murmuring a hello here and there. One artist caught him with a word as he went by, and he paused, leaning over the man’s shoulder, pointing at something on the easel, making a comment. The artist exclaimed and laughed, and the man moved on and took a seat on the paving stones. He pulled his sketchbook from beneath his arm and a stick of charcoal from the pocket of his deep blue coat.
There was no hesitation in him, no stopping to consider a line or a shadow. He drew as if he knew exactly what should be on the page and how he should put it there. I found myself envying his surety—I’d never had such confidence with words. But I told myself it could be only that he was very bad, unlearned enough not to know he should hesitate, and I was wondering if in fact that was the case when I realized that little Giulietta was sauntering over to him, having just noticed he was there.
Giles dropped the case with his pastels on the pavement, cursing as he raced to stop her, waylaying her not three steps from where the man in white trousers sat sketching. Giles said something to her, and everyone in the vicinity heard her call Giles a dog in that distinctive Venetian cantilena. She shoved him hard in the chest, sending him stumbling over the man and his sketchbook. Giles fell, the sketchbook flew from the man’s hands to skitter across the pavement, and Giulietta stalked away.
I hurried over and hauled Giles to his feet. He was red faced, sputtering, “What did I do to her? You saw it. What did I do?”
“For God’s sake, Giles, she’s a peasant,” I said. “What did you expect?”
He dusted himself off, glaring at me before he turned to the man he’d fallen over, who had risen now, and was giving us both a bemused look. “I’m sorry. You aren’t hurt?”
“Not the least bit,” the man said. “Startled only.”
I stepped to his sketchbook, and as I picked it up to hand it over, I saw what he’d been drawing. I paused, struck. He had managed to capture the languid bustle of the campo in only a few strokes. It was more than impressive. “This is very good.”
He smiled and reached for the sketchbook, which I gave to him. “Are you an art critic?”
I laughed. “Hardly.”
“An artist yourself then?”
“Not that either, I’m afraid. Giles here is the artist. I’m merely a poet.”
“A poet? Are you famous? You must pardon me for asking; I’m not much for reading. My sister would know better.”
“I’ve had a few successes,” I said, not at all modestly; there was so little to celebrate. “But as yet, true fame eludes me.”
“Are you looking for it in Byron’s footsteps, then?”
I ignored the twinge the name brought, the memory—not as faint as I might wish. “I’ve had quite enough of Venetian debaucheries and excesses.”
Giles laughed. “Debaucheries? Why, Nick hasn’t debauched at all since we’ve been in Venice. Perhaps that’s your problem, old boy. No debauching. I’m Giles Martin, by the way, and my poet friend is Nicholas Dane.”
“Joseph Hannigan,” said the man, shaking hands all around.
“Have you been in Venice long?” Giles asked.
“I arrived last night.” Hannigan glanced across the campo, toward the Accademia, shielding his eyes from the sun. “I’ve been trying to determine the best places to see. Is it worth going inside, do you think? I’ve heard there’s a good Veronese.”
“Dwarfs and dogs,” I said wryly.
He laughed. “I take it you don’t care for Veronese.”
“I haven’t the eye, I’m afraid,” I said.
“Nick’s being modest. He might not be Ruskin, but he’s got a very good eye. Everyone comments on it.” Giles looked at me with a kind of vague pride that startled me. “Why, Henry Loneghan himself asks for his opinion before he buys anything.”
“Henry Loneghan?” Hannigan asked.
“An art collector who lives in the city,” I explained. “An expatriate. And Giles exaggerates. Loneghan hardly needs my help choosing art.”
“But he asks for it anyway,” Giles said.
I was more aware than ever of the passing time and where I needed to be. “It’s a pleasure to have met you, Hannigan. But I’m afraid I must hurry off. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”
“I hope so.” As he reached out his hand to shake mine, the sketchbook in his other tilted and fell, crashing again to the paving stones, pages splayed. “Clumsy,” he said with a smile, bending to pick it up, flipping the pages as if to reassure himself they were all fine, letting it stop not at the page he’d been working on, but another, a sketch of a woman—though to call it a sketch was to do it a disservice. She was sleeping, her dark hair curling and spreading over a white pillow, her pouting mouth slightly parted, her nightdress fallen down one shoulder, revealing a round, pertly nippled breast. It was beautiful, so exquisitely rendered and erotically charged that I felt stunned. Dear God, he was a singular talent, perhaps more so than anyone I’d yet seen in Venice. He was exactly what Odilé was looking for.
Giles gasped. “Good God, man. Who is that?”
Joseph Hannigan glanced down at the sketch. “Do you like it? It was the first thing I drew when I got here.”
“You mean she’s here? In the city?” Giles asked.
I heard myself say, as if from far away, “Given that sketch, I think you’d be wasting your time with Veronese.”
“Well then, what should I look at instead? Where should I go? I’ve been hoping to find a guide—not one of the valets de place. I’ve no interest in shopping or restaurants. I’d like to find someone who can show me something new. Do you know of anyone who might serve? I can pay. Not much, but if a few centimes would do—”
“Something new?” I managed. “For what?”
“Inspiration.”
“I would think you’d already found it in those arms.”
Something I couldn’t read flickered through Joseph Hannigan’s eyes before he said with a quick smile, “She’s my sister. My twin, actually.”
“Your sister?” Giles was obviously as surprised as I.
Hannigan nodded as if he saw nothing odd in it. “She often poses for me. She’s a good model, don’t you think?”
“Most assuredly,” Giles said with fervor, and I knew he’d already forgotten his Venetian girl. “She’s here with you?”
“Yes. And she’s as anxious as I am to discover Venice.”
That the model was his sister only made his skill more amazing; the sensuality he’d managed to invent spoke to an imaginative talent of the kind Odilé was always searching for—now more intently than ever. Less than a month left . . . she needed a man like Joseph Hannigan. Young. Attractive. Charming. And with such talent . . . she would sniff him out in moments, and once she did, she would choose him. If I was ever to get my life—my talent— back, I could not fail again. If she were to get what she needed from Joseph Hannigan, her strength would be fully restored and the cycle would begin anew.
I could not let it ha
ppen. Not now, not so close to an end. Which meant I must keep Odilé from finding him. I must keep him too busy to wander the city. He wanted inspiration, and I would make certain he found it—in the places of my choosing.
“Giles and I could show you what there is to see in Venice, couldn’t we, Giles?”
Giles nodded with alacrity. “Oh, absolutely we could. What we haven’t seen isn’t worth seeing. And we’d be happy to show your sister about too.”
Joseph Hannigan smiled, obviously pleased. “I don’t wish to impose.”
I smiled back. “It is no imposition. Truly, we’re happy to do so.”
We made plans to meet later that evening, and I hurried off in search of Stafford, but Joseph Hannigan did not leave my mind. It seemed fate was smiling on me at last.
ODILÉ
There are moments in Venice so sublime you cannot breathe for the sheer beauty and weight of them. The mournful pas de deux of the gondoliers’ songs is one of those things, a phenomenon of melancholy summer nights. Though this time, as I stood listening at my open balcony door, unable to sleep, it had a different effect. My hunger was raging and restless now in a way that I dreaded and feared, and I was unsoothed by the beauty of “La Biondina”—no matter how lovely were its echoes and harmonies, one line sung close, another answering from far away, back and forth, until it faded and was gone. I remembered the woman it had been written for—the Countess Benzoni—who had charmed and beguiled her way through Venice. But though the melody stayed with me all that night and into the next day, it wasn’t Benzoni I was thinking of. It was Paris.
And Madeleine Dumas.
Some memories fade to tender nostalgia, and some fade altogether, and after living nearly three hundred years, I had forgotten so much. But my memory of Madeleine never dimmed. To think her name was to see her standing as vibrantly before me as she had all those years ago, splendid in jewels and silks. It seemed she sparkled even in the dimmest light. She was the one who’d told me that what I most wanted was in reach. You can have it all, cherie, but you must have the will to take it.